


Nijinsky, V. (1913) The Rite of Spring. [Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, Paris. 29 May 1913.]

by weekends



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Miscommunication, Violins, disinherited monty, felicity is meme garbage, single-side deafness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekends/pseuds/weekends
Summary: Titled after the ballet that was received with a riot of projectile vegetables and French jeering, only to become the turning point for modernist music history. Don't worry, no one dances themselves to death in this fic — that's just one of Percy's assignments — but there is a great deal of irreverence involving a pen, a violin, and a cupcake on several occasions.In short, Monty meets Percy at a cafe.





	Nijinsky, V. (1913) The Rite of Spring. [Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, Paris. 29 May 1913.]

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for some description of violence. It's not very graphic or gruesome, but if you would rather not read it, send me a message! Also, another warning for one instance of ableism. I tried not to focus on the ableist action too much, so no detail is given for the act itself.

People? Studying? God, what a nightmare. Monty can't believe the cafe is _this_ crowded the blue moon he decides to dedicate some words to paper.

“No! No way!” screeches from a table of school-holiday teens.

Hearing is hard enough with one ear, and he has to be subjected to _that_? Nightmare.

He scans the place for seats. The whole place is dripping with industrial casual, though it tries to be nonchalant about it. Brick walls, hanging lights, mismatched rusty chairs at tables seating 2 or 4 or that ungodly group of 6 schoolchildren. But the crème de la crème is the air lights. Panels of sunlight give the illusion one is not slaving away under the peril of early semester assignments, and the library’s fluorescent lights don't flatter Monty that much anyway.

There's a quiet corner where a square of light smacks a table of two, occupied only by a boy with headphones. It's blessedly far from the racket near the front.

Alright, Monty. Be a dear and acquire the means to perhaps, maybe, begin to think of _possibly_ studying.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks. Dimples, too, just in case.

The table is small enough that standing at the seat opposite the booth should bring Monty into the boy’s peripheral vision, but he shows no indication of noticing anything behind his laptop screen. He's not awful looking, Monty notes. Freckles across his cheeks, curly hair held back by the big blue-silver headphones wedged onto his head, and a concentrated moue as he clicks around on his laptop. Monty reminds himself to not stare.

He waves a hand in front of the boy. “You there?”

He finally looks up, surprise written across his face. Monty's not disappointed to note that his curated visual charm is not lost on him as a faint flush colours his cheeks.

“Sorry to interrupt. I was wondering if I could sit here? There's nowhere else unoccupied by screaming ghouls.”

“Oh!” he pulls his headphones off, hair springing free. “Sure, you can sit.” He smiles. “I promise I’m not a screaming ghoul.”

“Thanks,” Monty slips his satchel off his shoulder and gets himself arranged. The boy looks on for a few moments as Monty tries to contain his mess. Monty’s pretty sure he might be regretting his decision. He's got a sprawl of readings for sociology and he starts haphazardly highlighting, before giving up and making his father very proud by procrastinating glances at the boy in front of him. Father's already paid for his tuition anyway and Monty thinks that's fair for the eighteen years he's had to live under his thumb.

The boy's probably around the same age, Monty thinks. He hasn't seen him around uni, so they probably study in different faculties, never having crossed paths. Every few moments, he nods to a silent beat, sometimes punctuated by a rhythm tapped out by his fingers. It would be annoying if he weren't so inviting to look at. His eyes seem kind, even if they are completely absorbed in his screen, and his freckles dust his cheekbones in such a dear way, Monty bets even the stars get a little jealous sometimes.

He quits his gazing and decides to make some notes. Shuffling through his chaos of highlighters, papers and a useless box of paper clips, he comes up empty. He curses his misfortune before resigning to seeking help, lightly tapping the boy's laptop to tear his attention away from the screen.

“Do you have a spare pen I could borrow? Mine’s disappeared on me, as bloody usual.”

The boy props his headphones half-loose and replies, “Sure.” Monty discovers what he'd assume would look wonky and weird only looks casual and endearing on the boy. A few moments of rifling through his backpack yields a pen, “Just don't lose it. It's my only pen.” He smiles politely as he hands it to Monty.

“Doubt I could lose this, seeing as you've labelled your name on it,” he squints at the label, “ _Prissy_ , is it?”

Monty knows it's Percy but it's worth the fumble when Percy lets out a laugh that's closer to a guffaw.

“Prissy? God, no. My name’s Percy. I've had the same stationery since high school,” his eyes gleam mischievously, “which I graduated, by the way. Not sure if you did, with your inability to read.”

“Percy, dear, look at all these words before me. Don't you doubt my ability to read.” Monty doubts it himself at this point, the dread of assignments looming a reminder of how much he doesn't know.

Percy eyes his work dubiously. “I am so very glad I'm not you, Mister…”

“Monty. That's also my first name-- kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It's actually Henry but my last name is Montague but I go by Monty.” He can see how this might be a little confusing.

“I see, Henry Montague,” says Percy, like he's giving it a test run.

“Monty."

“Monty,” Percy agrees.

“So, not to pry -- and I'm totally procrastinating here -- but what are you working on?” It looks pretty interesting, what with him bobbing his head or drumming a rhythm out on the tabletop.

Percy smiles sheepishly. “I'm a music major. This project is doing my head in, but honestly, it looks more fun than--” he waves a hand at Monty’s mess of readings “--whatever that is.”

Monty effects offence on behalf of his chosen major. “Sociology is a perfectly fine major!” he makes to huddle his papers protectively against his chest, “If only I could go back in time and give Foucault the shag of his lifetime.”

Percy laughs and Monty notices his nose wrinkles cutely with the rest of his face scrunching up. “I had to read him when I took a social science elective once. Probably would've made his work a bit more readable at that.”

“Yes, introduce him to the cornucopia of 21st century text slang,” he smooths out his papers, “Then we could all get top marks.”

“Definitely a priority for time travelers.” Percy nods sagely. “You should give music a go to break the monotony. Do you play anything?”

Monty could think of a few lewd answers to that but he decides to be civil. A wild thought flashes in his mind. Is this what making friends is like?

“Sadly, no. Having one ear makes me a little hard of hearing.” He tips his head to the right, emphasising his lack thereof, and his previous question is dashed against the rocks as shock flits across Percy’s face, followed by a retinue of emotions he tries to corral away.

He's surprised, though, when Percy replies, “Doesn't mean you can't hear at all. If you have one ear, you should definitely torture it by learning violin.” He shoots Monty a grin.

Friends! Monty's brain cries out to him, Friends! He tells his brain to calm down, but Monty's so glad Percy doesn't ask the same egg-shell questions as everyone else. “So you want to deafen me completely?”

Another shriek erupts from the gaggle of schoolchildren. They both wince and share a look that answers the question for them both.

“Good point,” says Monty.

They return to study -- well, Monty’s approximation of study while his mind berates him for not understanding anything -- and an hour or two easily passes with the occasional sympathetic grimace at every ridiculous racket that spikes up from that table. After a while, Monty decides he's had enough of studying and stands to go, bones creaking as he stretches.

“My brain is about to explode,” he says as Percy pulls off his headphones.

“Tell me that when you've listened to the same thirty-two bars of Stravinsky over and over again. I don't think I'll think of spring without pain ever again.”

“Learning is agony.” He emphasises this by sweeping his papers and notebooks and highlighters into his bag. Of course, it's not as graceful as he thinks it is, and a few errant highlighters hit the ground. He sighs and kneels down to collect them.

“Have you considered not being dramatic?” Percy quirks an eyebrow down at him.

“A gentleman is entitled to some drama!” His statement comes shrill from where he's scrambling for his damn highlighters on the floor.

He hears Percy laugh above him and he's tempted to grab his ankle in retaliation, but remembers they've only known each other for a few hours and it probably would be unseemly, not to mention ungentlemanly. Highlighters neatly ensconced, he dumps them in his bag and rights himself, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

“How are you still studying?”

Percy shrugs. “I want good marks.”

“Good marks won’t get you anywhere. Good looks on the other hand…” he flaps a hand at himself and yelps when Percy kicks him in the shin.

“Modesty isn't one of your virtues, is it?”

“Nope.”

“Any moral code at all?”

“Nope.”

“Well, glad to have been in your deranged company this afternoon.” His smiles radiates such comfortable warmth, Monty’s breath catches.

“Likewise,” he offers a hand, “I'll see you around?”

Percy’s hand is warm to match his smile, and Monty's breath pretty much stalls. “Definitely.”

//

He's definitely not waiting, Monty tells himself. He just happens to be sitting at the same table as he was yesterday at the around the same time. He's definitely not keeping an eye on the entrance because he's definitely. Not. Waiting.

He so absorbed in his Not Waiting he almost writes it in his notes. He forgot to give Percy his pen back last time so he's just here on the off chance that Percy turns up and he can, you know, demonstrate politeness. The nervousness at the bottom of his stomach is completely unrelated.

Monty shakes his head and drags his eyes over the same paragraph again. Act one's prologue details self-consciousness facing another self-consciousness and how 'it has come out of itself'. What man went around talking like this? Monty thinks, deciding G.W.F Hegel definitely did not leave the house very often. Though, Monty isn't one to speak, seeing as he only ventures out for classes, the occasional lay and the cafe. His flat is sad and sometimes, he even sadder, but the rent is cheap enough for Felicity's weekly payments, embezzled from their father, and his social media gigs to cover rent with excess. Maybe Monty should get a more sociable job, but being paid to run a budding juice company's Instagram account suits him just fine for its convenience and ease.

“Percy!”

 _Percy_? The barista holds out a coffee, “Strong flat white for Percy!”

Percy! “That's me,” says Percy. He looks… dishevelled today, like he got here in a hurry, backpack haphazardly slung over one shoulder with his laptop in his arms. “I also ordered the house cupcake?”

The barista hands him his coffee, clearly sceptical of his ability to not let everything he's holding come crashing down. Monty empathises with her. “We’ll bring it to your table,” she says, wisely.

Percy flashes her a smile and turns to the fray. Monty scrambles to look busy. He spent so much time not worrying, he has no idea if Percy will even remember him. Or what if he went home and decided he hates Monty? What if he's actually angry Percy took his pen or what if--

A shadow falls across the table. “Hey, Monty.”

What if Monty might have actually made a friend?

He stares up at Percy, dimly registering his towering height, while mentally thwacking himself to do more than stare.

“I've got your pen,” he blurts out.

“Oh,” Percy waves a hand dismissively, “That's fine. Is it okay if I sit?”

Monty gathers enough wits to tell Percy, “Sure.”

He beams at Monty and Monty’s wits temporarily scatter from him again.  “Thanks. Today's just been a series of unfortunate events.” Percy pulls out the chair and sits, laying out his laptop and coffee. “Did you know some three-hour seminars actually run for the full three hours? And that mine are scheduled for 8am?”

Three hours of forced learning? Monty winces in sympathy. “I really doubt anyone has half a brain at eight A.M., including the lecturer. Though I doubt your lecturer had any to begin with if they thought a morning three-hour class was a good idea.”

“That's exactly what I was thinking. So, yeah. I'll most likely be here a little later every Tuesday until semester end.”

“Every Tuesday?” Is Percy suggesting they sit here and study-- on a regular basis?

Percy’s busy untangling a knot in the cord of his headphones. “Yeah, it's a music history class with mandatory attendance, but it's not so-- oh.”

His fingers stop fiddling at the cord, and his cheeks faintly flush. He raises his eyes to Monty’s.

“I mean-- that's if you want to keep this up. You know, this.” He gestures between them, “Studying. Friends.”

 _Friends_. Monty smiles.

“Friends,” he agrees.

The returning smile he gets from Percy has all of his wits soundly dead and gone. Percy resumes untangling his headphones. “So what days will I be seeing you here? Unless you're one of those bastards that lucked out with no morning classes.”

The dread that comes with his Research Methodology class reminds him he is not one of the lucky ones. “I'll be here most days except Wednesday and Friday. God knows I can't be productive on my own, and the library is just awful.”

“They've instituted a no food or drink rule there now,” his fingers wrangle the headphones jack out of a stubborn loop, “The first four floors still smell like old carpet though.”

“Must be the old carpet,” says Monty sagely.

Percy snorts, “Don't be cute.”

“Aren't I always?”

Percy levels a dry look at him and Monty smiles innocently.

He returns to his wires and detangles the jack through the last knot. “Finally,” mutters Percy, plugging them into his laptop.

The barista approaches their table and sets the house cupcake down before returning to her station. It looks pretty impressive for a cupcake, with a generous swirl of white frosting topped with an elaborate cream-coloured piped rose.

“That looks like an awful lot of sugar,” says Monty. He's pretty sure the cupcake itself is chocolate-flavoured.

“That sounds like someone who doesn't have any fun,” Percy rolls his eyes at him. He uses his fork to saw the thing in half. “Here, have some. It's chocolate.”

“If this sends me into a sugar high, you'll have to suffer me through the crash, you know.”

“I'm already suffering you now.”

“You haven't run for the hills yet.”

“I told you, don't be cute about it.”

He watches as Percy bites down on his half, but with the mountain of frosting, he gets some on the top of his nose. Monty tries to contains his laugh, unsuccessfully, he thinks, when Percy shoots him a look.

He wipes it away with his thumb and  sticks the side with the frosting in his mouth. Monty's mouth goes dry. This happens for the next few bites and Monty can't help but look.

Percy sees his stare and swallows his bite before retorting, “What? Just try it, Monty.” Monty almost chokes on nothing. “It's the house cupcake for a reason.”

He pushes the plate toward Monty. Monty doesn't want to keep staring at Percy with frosting on his face and fingers, so he picks up his half and takes a bite and-- oh. It is quite good.

Percy’s face is smug when he looks at him in surprise. “Told you.”

He doesn't want to talk with his mouth full so he settles for rolling his eyes and demolishing the thing in a few mouthfuls. Percy’s already finished his half, typing away at his laptop.

He remembers how Percy got some frosting on his nose and wipes a napkin there just in case.

“You've still got some frosting,” says Percy. He taps at his own mouth, “Around here.”

Monty wipes again but the napkin comes away empty. Percy laughs at him. “You'd better not be fucking around, Percy,” he warns. Another try with the napkin proves unsuccessful. “Where?”

“It's right--” Percy reaches over and swipes his thumb somewhere near the corner of Monty’s top lip. “There.”

He sticks the thumb with the frosting into his own mouth, eyes focused on his laptop screen again, and Monty tries not to die on the spot right there.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, ignoring the flutter in his stomach.

They study in companionable silence just like yesterday, and it's only after his afternoon classes end and hours afterward, drifting off to half-formed images of freckles under kind eyes, that Monty realises he didn't flinch when Percy reached out for him.

//

They meet on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday every week. Monty's not sure if these sessions have been productive or distracting, but his mid-semester grades two weeks later reflect some good that's come out of this.

Percy looks genuinely happy for him when Monty tells him.

“Maybe it's my magic pen,” says Percy, raising a brow, “Which you still haven't returned, by the way.”

Monty is affronted. “I've tried! You just never take it back.”

Percy ignores him. “At this point, I deserve it back with interest.”

“So what-- You want a pen and a paper clip? What value does high school stationery have anyway?”

“I think a house cupcake would clear your debts.”

“You're a hoarder, you know. An addict, too.”

“Terms and conditions, Monty. You tacitly agreed to this when you became my friend.”

“God help me.” He fishes out his wallet and makes for the counter.

Monty eventually discovers that Percy is actually a sentimental hoarder. Next Thursday, he lugs in a violin case that looks like it's survived two wars and a nuclear blast. He asks Percy if he's heard of, oh, I don't know, protective varnish, maybe, and Percy shrugs and says, “My father left it to me like this” before the subject swiftly moves on to the merits of shoe polish and sneaker mania.

It happens a few other times, too. A carved key he uses as a keychain on Tuesday, an old jacket the Monday after, and the violin within the case the week after-- all items his father had touched one way or another. Monty would assume bitterness or resentment on Percy’s end but none of that colours Percy's tone. Each time he mentions his late father, he is almost tender, treating it as a fact of long ago, and he's quietly joyful to have what he can.

Of his own father, Monty never wants to exist between them, but the universe conspires against him and it happens soon enough.

He's showing Percy a picture of a daft green frog puppet that Felicity’s texted him -- it has the caption ‘I don't mind’ and Monty is hoping Percy can explain the logic behind his sister’s communication media -- when a notification from the devil herself comes in.

Monty's phone is on silent with no vibrate so he's not aware of it until, after a few moments of shocked silence, Percy grimaces and tells him, “You got a text message, by the way.”

“Oh, one sec.” He takes his phone back and opens up his messages. They're all texts from Felicity, sent one after the other.

_father’s back, do u want me to say anything_

_nvm that was nearsighted of me to ask_

_i'm sorry for having no clue he was so rough on you though. really._

_ugh. communicating feelings with my brother. we don't have to talk about this_

_anyway i'm learning sugondese now_

His heart drops to his stomach. Maybe Percy politely ignored all these, he thinks, but he remembers the empty shock across Percy's face moments before. He's read it, then, and he'll want to be sorry about it and have Monty talk it out with him.

“I wouldn't reply to that if I were you.”

Monty looks up and he thinks he sees pity in Percy's eyes. His heart fairly clatters into his shoes.

“Oh, it's nothing,” he waves a hand, trying to gain equilibrium, “She's just trying to be funny.”

It's a flimsy lie but he just wants to move past it,  doesn't want pity, not from Percy.

“It’s actually pretty clever of her.”

“What?”

“Would she have gotten you this time?”

“Er-- what?”

Percy’s brow furrows before horror strikes him. “Oh-- I meant-- not the part about,” he flaps a hand hurriedly and Monty's glad he doesn't say _your father beating you up_. “I meant her last text.”

“Her last text?”

“You don't know it?” Percy’s face brightens considerably, a sneaky expression quirking his lips.

“No…” Monty is so confused. “Should I be worried?”

Percy is failing miserably at containing his smirk. “Add ‘nuts’ right after that supposed language she's studying and read it again.”

Monty does. He still doesn't get it. And it's a couple more tries when suddenly, it dawns on him--

“That little brat,” he grinds out. “And you!” He points a finger at Percy, whose poker face doesn't even come close to qualifying, “You could've let me live in peaceful ignorance but you had to torment me!”

Percy’s already weak composure breaks and he tips his head back and laughs. His eyes crease at the corners and his freckles bunch up as he laughs and laughs, his nose wrinkle making its appearance at a particularly solid guffaw.

“Are you done yet?” Monty grumbles, pretending to be put off when really he just wants to-- well, kiss Percy senseless.

Wait, what?

He tries the thought in his head again, like somehow he's misheard his own mental dialogue, but the same idea prevails: he just wants to kiss Percy senseless. Leave it to Monty to make a friend in earnest and develop a big fat crush on him.

Finally, Percy calms down enough to be coherent. His brown eyes are bright and warm, and Monty’s heart surges like a flower yawning open in the spring.

“Oh, Monty,” he says, still grinning, “What are we going to do with you.”

Monty thinks the same damn thing. “We're going to study, that's what.” He flips open a notebook and viciously clicks his (Percy’s) pen down. “Stop sympathising with my sister’s brainless sense of humour and do something productive.”

The rest of the afternoon is a series of failure in restraint. Each occasion starts when, out of nowhere, Percy's shoulders start shaking with-- it's not even _laughter_ yet, it's a giggle-- and it devolves into breathy laughter before Monty gives up ignoring how silly it all is and falls into Percy’s laughing as well. They end up giggly over nothing and then solemnly declare to do work before the same blasted thing happens minutes later.

When they finally pack, Monty feels drunk with it.

“I got nothing done today and I blame you for it, Percy Newton.” He woefully packs away the readings he's yet to finish.

“You know what,” says Percy, sliding his laptop into his bag, “I think we were temporarily possessed by screaming ghouls.”

“Pleading temporary insanity?” Monty raises a brow, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Percy mirrors him. He places a hand on Monty's shoulder, the spot of warmth blooming to the rest of Monty's chest. “Temporary possession,” he corrects.

Monty’s phone lights up on the table in front of him, and Percy removes his hand, returning to his packing.

Monty glances down at his phone. “Felicity just texted me.”

Percy grins. “What'd she say?”

Sure that Felicity won't text any other instances of Monty's damaged childhood, he holds his phone out for Percy to read.

_monty. do it. ask me about sugondese_

_u are obliged by siblinghood to ask me what sugondese is_

_you leave me no choice but to steal your hair gel. say goodbye, monty_

“I have my read receipts on,” he explains.

Percy lets loose a guffaw and they collapse into laughter again.

//

It's Tuesday and he hits submit on his Week 12 assignment for Scipio's class at exactly 8:59am before collapsing into bed-- just a short nap, he tells himself, he has to see Percy later today. When he opens his eyes, his phone tells him it's 2pm and Percy's array of text messages tell him he's late.

“Shit, fucking bollocks--” mutters Monty, rushing to splash some water on his face and stick a toothbrush in, “You’re an idiot, Monty. Stupid!”

He shoots Percy a quick reply, grabs his bag and rushes out the door. When he gets there, he sees Percy packing his things and his heart seizes up, which is considerably not good given he's just run three blocks uphill. He crosses the finish line to get to Percy as he zips up his backpack up from his seat.

“Oh, hey,” Percy’s surprise at his arrival turns amused. Probably because Monty’s hair is looking more feral than rakish and his legs are shaky as the adrenalin drains out of him.

“Percy--” he pants, “SorryI’msolate,” he takes another deep breath, “Paper,” more panting, “9am deadline. No sleep.”

“Yeah, I got your text,” he stands and pulls out his phone, “‘bonna b lste slept in soggy’. Which probably made more sense than whatever you were wheezing at me.” He smiles and hooks his bag over his shoulder. “Come on, let's go.”

Monty lets himself be steered out of the cafe by Percy's hand at his elbow.

“Where are we going?” asks Monty once he’s fairly sure he's regained control of his respiratory system. “Please don't make me do anymore running.”

They haven't hung out beyond the confines of the cafe and Monty’s heart races with nervous anticipation. Or general deficiency in cardiovascular fitness.

“Quit whining, I bet you didn't even run that far,” says Percy, “We’re going to study at my place.”

It's definitely nervous anticipation, Monty decides. “You don't live in that old violin case?”

“I don't, Monty. You'll be surprised. All four walls and everything.” He drops the hand at his elbow to waggle four fingers at him. “How’d your paper go?”

“Ugh.”

“That's a start.”

Monty complains all about the hell referencing gave him and they take the elevator up to the third floor. Percy tells him his room is all the way at the end down the hall, and every now and again, another student waves to Percy or claps him on the back in passing. Monty feels like a trophy wife.

“You've got the corner room, right?” asks Monty, “All four walls and everything,” he mock swoons.

Percy gently shoves him with his shoulder. “Sometimes, I wish there were more walls. It gets so bright in there, you have no idea-- oh, hey Jason--” Jason gives him a two-fingered salute before disappearing into a room. “Anyway, my roommate Dante is visiting his sister for a few days so we’ll have the whole place to ourselves. He's pretty nice, actually. I think it's because his dad plays piano so he knows music practice can be a pretty ugly process.”

“I think it would be a pretty process coming from you. That's probably why he tolerates it,” Monty's sanity yells at him from behind a screen of sleep deprivation, “I mean, it can't be that bad, can it?”

They come to a stop at the end of the hallway in front of a door-- Percy's door. Percy doesn't look back at him and Monty thinks it's because of his flirty blabbing mouth, but his eyes are locked on a post-it slapped on the door.

Monty's eyes glean something alarmingly ableist in its contents and he's not sure why stillness has settled over Percy's features. Maybe it's aimed at his roommate, or--

Or maybe there's something Percy hasn't told Monty. And this is specifically offensive to Percy. And Monty finds himself angry, because Percy doesn't deserve ugly words like that, doesn't deserve to be made unhappy and closed off on a perfectly good day.

Percy flushes and wordlessly crumples the note up. He jams in his key and pulls open the door. Monty dazedly follows him before it's shut behind him. Percy’s not let go of the handle yet, the tension in his shoulders still high. Monty hears him take a slow inhale, followed by an exhale that's just as slow, his grip on the doorknob creaking the metal.

“Percy?” His own anger takes a seat at the stiffness in Percy’s posture. “Are you alright?”

Percy's hand finally lets go of the door. He turns around and he looks suddenly tired. “Yeah, I'm fine.” He walks to what's presumably his side on the right of the room and tosses the balled-up note into the bin under his desk. “My humble abode,” he says, half-heartedly spreading his arms wide as he sits on the foot of his bed. The smile he gives doesn't touch his eyes.

Monty snorts delicately. It's more spacious than most double dorm rooms -- enough that even with the privacy screen in the middle, a decent sized rug still fits on floor next to his bed. Percy's bed is still rumpled, the sun pouring in from the french doors behind. He’s right about the ample sunlight, Monty notes, as a metre down the foot of his bed, his desk faces another window. Monty can picture him practicing his violin with the sun lighting the music stand beside his desk.

The picture is far from reality, though. Percy still looks shaken by the note on his door. Even with the sun warming his tawny brown skin, he looks pale.

“Hey,” Monty goes to sit next to him, and the softness of the mattress brings their shoulders together. A beat passes when Monty realises he doesn't know what to say, but then he remembers how furious he was at the unfairness of the world and the words come.  “Whoever did this-- they're complete arseholes, okay? Bottom of the barrel type of people.”

Percy’s posture doesn't relent from the hard lines and angles. “I know,” he mutters.

“Seriously, what pathetic lack of common sense would cloud someone like that?” he's getting properly angry now, “They deserve to fall down some stairs, at the very least, the bloody cowards. If we'd caught them in the act, their lives would be over, reported and expelled to start with--”

“I know, Monty!” Percy explodes next to him.

Monty shuts his mouth.

“Just--” Percy sighs, “Stop being pissed off. I know--” says Percy, his tone sharp as Monty opens his mouth to interrupt-- “I know what I said. I don't want to deal with this right now.”

Monty blinks. “How do you not want to deal with it?”

“Monty,” his voice is stern, “don't worry about it. Seriously.” The hard look in his eyes bear no leniency.

“Okay,” says Monty. “Fine.”

Percy sighs. “I'm sorry for blowing up. Let’s just study, okay? Do you want to study at the desk or bed?”

“I'll take the desk.” He slides into the chair, staring down at the music books crammed into the shelf. It's the first time he's seen Percy angry or upset, and it leaves Monty a little shaken. He realises being friends with someone doesn't mean they are obliged tell you everything, and there's a lot about Percy he probably doesn't know. Monty can only hope that Percy will want him around to know more.

His music books look worn and it reminds him of the violin case -- they're probably all passed down from his father. Monty suddenly realises he's never heard Percy play.

“Can you play me something?” he asks Percy, the clacking at his laptop going quiet at the question.

“Now?”

Monty shrugs. “If you want. I just haven't actually seen you play.” He quirks a smile, desperate for the uneasy silence to go away. “You could just be creatively accessorising, for all I know.”

He know he succeeds when Percy returns his smile. “Oh yes, the next summer staple, your dead father’s violin case.”

“Pretty please?” Monty flashes his dimples.

“Is there anything else with you?”

“‘Course not.”

“You're such a rake,” he chides, but he gets up from the bed and picks up his violin leaning against the wall.

Monty admires his long fingers as he flips through a few pages in the book on the music stand. The afternoon sun paints Percy in a wash of gold, his lashes casting a soft shadow on his cheeks. Settling on a page, he holds the violin under his chin and his right arm comes up with the bow. Percy stands like that for a moment, lean gracefulness basked in hues of sunlight, and Monty distantly thinks of a Klimt painting.

Then Percy starts playing. It’s a jaunty tune that slopes down for the most part, its character reminding Monty of an old time rag. Percy was right about the violin though -- it's unapologetically loud up close, even with one ear -- but it's worth it for the picture before him, Percy’s arm moving as easy as breathing, his fingers cleanly pressing and fluttering across the neck. His body sways to the phrasing in the music, and Monty thinks it's one of his favourite things to witness when it's all over too soon a minute later.

Monty has no words. No breath, even.

“What'd you think?” asks Percy, his face open in shyness.

Monty swallows. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He tries to catch a word from the millions suddenly spilling across his mind, most of them along the lines of _Percy you are funny and kind and amazing and I want to know more of you and I also have a huge crush on you and god you're so perfect_ \-- but otherwise, he’s speechless.

“Have you run out of words to say?” Percy grins. “The great Monty, finally speechless.” He returns the violin back against the wall.

“I’m thinking!” retorts Monty. “It was really good!”

“All that thinking, and you came up with ‘really good’?”

“It's true, though.” Monty pauses and locks eyes with Percy. “It was beautiful.”

Percy smiles at him, slow and warm, and every word Monty's ever learnt empties out of his ear.

“Thanks,” says Percy.

They get back to studying and time passes in the torture of sociology readings and unrequited like. Monty’s stomach growls, and he grumbles when Percy laughs and declares it dinner-time, dialling a delivery into the dorm.

Dinner is chicken tikka masala, which is quickly eaten straight from the containers, and dessert is--

“Mint choc ice cream?” Monty is disgusted. “You disgust me.”

“It's the best of both worlds -- refreshing and sweet.” He takes a spoonful from the pint and sticks it in his mouth. “And it's really good.”

“I can't hear you with cutlery and garbage in your mouth.” He wanders over to the mini freezer and peers in. “Is there anything else?”

There's a box of double-choc creamsicles that catch Monty's eye. He reaches in.

“That's Dante’s.” Monty freezes. Percy is close enough behind him he can feel his cool breath on the nape of his neck. “I'd rather you not drive an ice cream wedge between me and my roommate.”

He reaches over to pry the box from Monty's grasp and Monty is glad the chill from the freezer abates the rising heat in his blood. When Percy turns around he gives Monty his spoon.

“Here,” Percy hands him the tub and shrugs. “Less dishes to do,” he explains.

Monty accepts both. He stabs a spoon at the pint and tries not to think about it having been in Percy's mouth when he swallows a spoonful. “It's..” he considers it. “Not _not_ disgusting.”

So he tries another spoonful and immediately shoves the spoon and tub back at Percy. “Nope, I take that back. Still disgusting.”

“Suit yourself. There's a banana if you want to eat that instead.”

“I'm good.” There is no way he is eating the world’s most phallic fruit in front of Percy.

He wanders over to the music stand, while Percy plonks himself into his desk chair. The notes seem nonsensical to Monty, knowing nothing of playing music besides Mary Had A Little Lamb. He had lessons up until he was eighteen, though he was a terrible student and his father enrolled him mostly so he could just say that Monty was taking music lessons. And then he wound up in a hospital with one less ear and a lot more courage, and the ‘music’ and ‘father’ parts stopped.

He's startled out of his thoughts when Percy asks, “Do you want to learn how to play?”

He's looking up curiously at Monty, pint and spoon set aside. “I could show you the basics.”

“I recall you mentioning torture on my remaining sense of hearing when we first met?”

“Yes. That.” Percy stands to gather the violin and bow. “But you're in the hands of a trained professional in the making.” He offers Monty the bow. “First, you need to learn how to handle my bow.”

Monty slowly raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Oh shut up,” Percy flushes. “Give me your right hand.”

His eyebrow climbs further still. Percy rolls his eyes.

He rests the base of the spine of the bow just below, against Monty's open hand. “You put your thumb like this,” Percy moves his thumb to a small groove, his hand warm over Monty’s. “Feel that? Make sure your thumb’s comfortably there.”

Monty nods, his throat gone dry, their contact driving Monty's heartbeat steadily closer to its pace during his involuntary run this morning. Percy continues, fingers positioning his own gently, “Your third and fourth fingers go like this. And your index finger rests just here. No, no, don't move your arm. Hang on, I'll just--”

Percy steps away and when he steps back behind him, his front brushes against Monty’s shoulder. He lines his own right arm alongside Monty's and Monty feels scalded alive where they touch. “Now your arm won't move so much, and your wrist can lean a little bit this way.” He fingers are delicate on Monty's wrist as he positions him. “There.” He sways his own forearm back and forth, moving Monty's with him. “That's the general bowing motion to play.”

Monty's pulse is so close to the surface, he's sure Percy can feel his heart thundering around in his chest.

“When can I get to the caterwauling?” Monty doubts even that will cover up the pounding against his rib cage.

“Savour your last moments of hearing, Monty.”

Monty is bereft for the second Percy steps away to retrieve the violin, and then he’s solid and warm again at Monty's back, hand smoothly rearranging Monty's fingers on the bow.

“Chin up,” he says, breath ghosting around Monty's left ear. Percy rests the violin on his shoulder. “Okay, now hold it here-- not the fretboard, because screeching is not on for tonight. Just close your fingers on the body here.”

Monty's not going to survive this, Percy's voice intimate in his ear. His own body feels like it's going to quiver right out of his skin. Percy's left hand leaves the violin and settles on Monty's waist, his heat a brand against Monty's skin.

“So now you move the bow but you aim for the middle part there. Just like this--” Percy moves his arm with Monty's. The strings screech and he feels Percy wince.

“Oops,” he says.

“Try going in a straight line over the strings. And just get the one that's most raised.” Monty's equal parts devastated and glad when Percy steps away to let Monty go through the motions on his own.

They try it a few more times, each try getting slightly less screechy until Monty can shakily move the bow across each string. Monty mutters about it sounding like a dying cat as he finishes his last set across the strings.

“The cat lives!” Percy claps as Monty lifts the bow. “Bravo.”

Monty mock-bows and gingerly sets the violin and bow at the desk. The room is quiet without the wail of the violin. “You were right. It's definitely torture.” His rolls his shoulder to get rid of the ache. “And not just on the ear.”

"My chosen vocation," Percy intones solemnly. He settles across the middle of his bed, leaning against the wall behind him, then frowns and scoots to the foot. "Here. Sit." Oh. Comprehension dawns on Monty. "I know that chair isn't that comfortable."

"You just-- you moved." He moved to make room for Monty. He moved so Percy was on his left.

"Yeah, and?"

"You moved so I could hear you better."

Percy flushes, like he was caught in the act. "It's nothing."

Monty walks to the bed and slowly slides into place next to Percy. "It's not."

Percy shifts and Monty feels his shoulders brush his. "Was it--" He stops, fiddling with the blanket. "Was it because of your dad?"

"No," says Monty, staring down at his lap. Percy still looks nervous in his peripheral vision, the blanket not faring any better under his wringing.

Monty remembers that night clearly. A same-night walk of shame home had taken him down an ill-lit block that that was mostly alleyways after business hours. He knows it was cold because he'd never been able to wear that same jacket again, every winter when he surveys his closet.

"No, please--" A young man's voice, about Monty's age, had weakly echoed between two buildings. Then, the sickening crunch of bone on flesh.  Monty doesn't know what had motivated him but he ran over, and found another man there, too, in one whole piece holding a wallet and rearing his fist back to strike again.

"You don't have to tell me," Percy's voice is soft, understanding.

"No, I want to." Because Percy moved for him. "Someone was being hurt, and I--" Monty still doesn't know. Did he rush in? Save the day? Make things worse? "I also got hurt in the process," he finishes lamely.

The man had launched his fist into Monty's face, but it didn't even register for him. He'd felt it a million times before and it didn't matter, it doesn't matter. He was nothing. The blows kept coming but the young man -- the boy, really, as much of a boy as Monty had been back then-- hadn't scampered off like Monty assumed. He remembers a small voice yelling.

"Stop! You don't need to do this." It didn’t make things any better and the man kicked the boy in the stomach before resuming on Monty, but he continued anyway, face bloody, "He's only trying to help-- leave him alone! None of this is his fault--"

It sounds silly, getting the shit beaten out of him, his blood sticky where it oozed out of the tear in his cheek while a stranger had the same done to him not two feet away-- it's in that moment that Monty realises he knows nothing. He knows nothing of love, nothing of kindness, yet here this stranger was, receiving an absolute beating because he was kind.

Monty remembers lifting a hand up, fat load of good that did him, but the man wasn't counting on him being anything other than a rag doll, so Monty had managed a good kick in his gut, twice. The man stumbled backwards and the other boy managed to get up and kick him across the face.

"Fuckshitfuck--shit, let's go!" He remembers the panic in his face, being pulled up to his feet, but he was too slow.

"I wasn't being brave, though." He tells Percy now, looking at his hands. "I was scared shitless. But I realised I never saw a way out before. It was just grow up and be my father, but someone within an inch of his life was kind to me. And I realised people weren't like my father or expected me to be like him. So I blindly shot my limbs out-- I was rather inept with hand-eye coordination, you see-- and got a gun to my face." He can still hear the safety release. "And my ear blasted off." _Bang_.

He had woken up in a hospital surrounded by police and Felicity. The man had been arrested when police arrived on the scene after the other boy hit him solidly and called an ambulance. Felicity tells him the boy visited Monty once to tell him thank you, but Monty has no memory besides his world folding in half, his hearing gone with his ear. That and quietly telling his father to fuck off when he came by during visitation hours, consequently writing himself out of everything he'd ever known.

He finally turns to Percy, who looks and looks at him, like he's never seen Monty before. Percy, who looks stricken with-- horror? Shock?

"I'm sorry," says Percy, quietly.

No, Monty knows, it's pity.

"Don't be."

"I'm sorry that no one was kind to you." He holds Monty's gaze, a soft strength in his eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't meet you sooner."

Monty imagines that. Percy in his life, maybe for as long as he'd lived. Maybe then things wouldn't have been so unbearable, but he had Percy now, and his heart warms when he realises he might have Percy in his life for quite some time, if Monty had a say in it.

Something glitters in the corner of his eye and Monty looks away from Percy to note the growing puddle on his desk.

Amused, he raises a brow. "Your ice cream's melting."

Percy blinks. "What?"

Monty points.

"Oh, shit!" Percy scrambles to pick the soggy pint up. "Do you think this is salvageable?"

Unbelievable. Monty scoffs. "Mint choc deserves to be in the bin to begin with."

"You just have an unrefined palate," he wraps it in a plastic bag and dumps it with the kitchen rubbish forlornly. "Maybe we _can_ nick some of Dante's ice cream…"

Monty smiles, already on his way to the freezer. "Definitely."

"Do you want to do any more work?" Percy flips open his laptop, "I was thinking we'd maybe watch a movie to distract my moral compass."

"Percy, I had no idea you were such a paradigm of moral goodness." He retrieves the box and throws an ice cream at Percy. "I think we deserve a treat after today. What have you got?"

They end up watching a ridiculous film about bees and intellectual property law that Percy says will help explain some of Felicity's humour. It's been a long day, though, so he starts nodding off about ten minutes in, trying his best not to fall onto Percy's shoulder.

"Hey," Percy shakes his shoulder, "Monty."

Monty's eyes are so _heavy_. "Mmm?"

"Just lie down, you keep drifting off and starting up." A thought tells him this is a bad idea but it's too far away in his mind, and Percy's hands are gentle as he moves Monty down so his head hits the pillows.

He curls into the plushness and breathes in. "Mmm."

A light hand drifts through his hair, soft like a dream.

Sleep drags his mind in, the last words he registers come from Percy, his voice as tender as a fresh bruise. "'Night, Monty."

//

Ugh, so _bright_ , is Monty's first thought when he wakes up. Then he thinks, _five more minutes._

He cozies into the solid warmth behind him, drawing the arm around his chest tighter.

Monty freezes. When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t recognise where he is until the early morning glare subsides and he remembers Percy. He’s at Percy’s place. In Percy’s bed with Percy’s body pressed behind him, a long leg thrown over Monty’s.

His body doesn’t know what’s good for him and starts reacting, and Monty shortly begins the extraction process. He is so tempted to skip his Wednesday eight A.M. class to spend all day being trapped in Percy’s embrace, especially when Percy makes a noise into his hair and pulls Monty in tighter. But Monty actually enjoys Scipio’s class so he carefully pries Percy’s arm off and makes his escape.

The sheets rustle as Percy moves around, but he’s still sound asleep. Monty digs around in his bag for a pen and paper and scrawls _Got an 8AM class. See you Thursday!_ There’s a moment where Monty contemplates adding a cartoon heart, which he shakes off to scribble a smiley face in the corner instead. He leaves the note on Percy’s bedside table, the warm sheets next to the table and its contents calling to Monty.

Percy sighs into the pillow, still peacefully unaware of the morning havoc he’s put Monty through. There’s drool running from his mouth, his face slack with calm. He must’ve changed after Monty went to sleep, Monty notes, thankful for the sleep shorts and shirt and the limbs they expose to the soft morning sun. An illicit sliver of dusky brown skin winks at him where Percy’s shirt rides up and Monty feels faint. He can’t help it when he trails a hand, lightly, through Percy’s hair, like a dream from last night he almost forgot.

That’s when the sky falls down. Or at least, that’s how it feels for Monty.

Because that’s when he realises he’s in love with Percy.

Monty sighs, a small smile curling his lips as he looks at Percy, beautiful and drooling. He feels more awake and happy than he ever has before, and he leaves for his class reliving moments of Percy’s skin against his, his heartbeat strong and sure.

//

Thursday is a different animal between the two of them. Everything is the same and they study and bicker, but there's something knowing to it. Plus, they are both terrible at sneaking subtle glances. Monty's heart flutters every time they catch each other for a split second. It goes on like that, like it's his first schoolboy crush, before Monty's actual schoolboy crush -- not so much a crush as a fling -- walks up to their table.

"Monty?" says Richard Peele. "I haven't seen you in a while. How are you?"

Percy’s fingers stop tapping out music on the table. His still has his headphones in, but he's paused his music because he sends Monty an inquisitive look, questions written all over his face.

Monty tries not to grimace or be rude, “I'm well. And you?”

“Not too bad,” Richard Peele sends him a leery smile, “But now that you’re here, things are looking better.” He puts a hand on Monty's shoulder, fingers brushing against his nape.

Monty contains a recoil and shrugs Peele’s hand off. The boy was nothing short of obsessed with Monty and it looks like he still hasn't grown out of it. He glances at Percy, whose face has fallen unreadable. Monty doesn't think about it.

“I'm glad to hear that. Well, I'll leave you to it, then! Percy and I have to leave.” Monty reaches his hand across the table and squeezes Percy's hand. Percy, to his credit, pretends to look startled. “Come on, Percy.”

Peele still stands there as they pack up, obviously not having read the room, and blathers on, “Where are you headed, Monty? I’ll walk you there.”

He reaches out again but Monty promptly stands up, knocking his hand out the way. “Have a nice day, Richard.” He grabs Percy's hand and pulls him out of the cafe, not bothering to see Peele’s reaction.

Once they're outside, Monty drops his hand.

“Sorry about that,” he drags a hand through his hair nervously, “Latent admirer from my youth.”

Percy's face goes through a slew of uncomfortable expressions before he wrangles up a smile, “He can't take a hint, can he?”

“Nope.” Monty sighs. He was planning to get some more sneaky glances and studying done, but that's all ruined thanks to Richard bloody Peele. “What do we do now?”

"I still have some work to do."

Monty agrees. He also has more staring to do. "It's actually nice out for once. Let's go find a patch of grass."

Other students seem to have the some idea, milling about outside and sitting in groups or pairs. It's warm enough for short sleeves and no jackets, Monty and Percy being no exception. Monty sees a couple lying across another's stomach, and two men greeting each other with a kiss. His hand bumps into Percy's as they walk, and electricity flies through Monty's stomach.

They settle underneath a beech tree and set about working. Monty flips on the documentary he has to watch for Scipio's history class, and Percy gets out his sheet music and slaps on headphones. He remembers enrolling for the course title -- _Scandals in History: examining occasions when social rules have been flouted_ \-- but studying the why's and how's in the ruination of reputations is a lot more moving than he thought it'd be. The docco takes him through the life of Empress Theodora, who played a decisive hand in Byzantine politics with smarts and wiles at her disposable, defying all odds.

As cheesy as the acting portions are, Monty can't help but be impressed and he's found that he's -- god forbid -- actually learned something today. Percy’s probably achieved enough learning too, seeing as he's shut his laptop, rolling a shoulder.

“Study too hard?” Monty asks, as Percy winces on a particular rotation.

He snorts inelegantly. “I wish. I just stared at the words hoping they'd make sense. Didn't work.”

“I could help.” At Percy’s raised brow, he corrects himself. “Not with the words, I mean. I could massage out your shoulder.”

Monty wants to hit himself with a shovel.

“Err, it's really not that bad.” He still winces when he shakes his head though.

“It's no problem for me, and besides,” says Monty, digging his own grave, “you actually need a painless shoulder. Violin is full-body torture, remember?”

“Good point. So, how do you want me?”

They both flush, though Monty's is considerably more blustering because he knows he's about to put his hands on Percy. “I'll just--” he gestures vaguely.

He scoots behind Percy on his knees and places his hands on Percy's shoulders, thumbs brushing the base of his neck. He starts pressing in to hide the shaking in his hands and Percy immediately releases a groan. He's glad his body isn't pressed against Percy's back, because Monty's mind has gone over a cliff, leaving his body to fend for himself against the onslaught of Percy.

“You are quite stressed out, you know,” casually, totally casually, “Like squeezing out a brick.”

Monty presses his thumb into a particularly stiff spot and Percy hums and drops his head down. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Oh, you know,” _Dated a masseuse._ “Here and there,” he says instead.

Percy gives a small groan in response as Monty ups the pressure. His heart is racing and he's sure his face is beet red. The heat across his body probably isn't all due to the outdoor sun either.

Several soft groans and excruciating moments later, Monty reluctantly pulls his hands away and sits cross-legged next to Percy. He looks blissed out and Monty feels similarly, dizzy from the closeness and contact of Percy’s skin against his.

Percy rolls his shoulder and neck. “That's so much better. Your hands are magic.”

 _No, you are_ , Monty wants to say, stupidly. “Thanks. I accept payment in house cupcakes.”

Percy smiles at him and lays his hand on top of Monty's on the ground between them. “Deal.”

Everything is simple, then. There's no panic or fear scrambling his nerves, no twinge of confusion in his chest. It's as pure and simple as daylight, existing here with Percy smiling warmly at him. It's simple when he leans forward as Percy does, and it's simple when their lips meet, safe and sweet.

That's how he remembers it. But in the now, when Monty's lips press against Percy's, his heart spills over, and when Percy's mouth moves softly against his, his pulse floods his sound, a deluge of _Percy_ and _warm_ and _sun_. They keep kissing, hands together between them, and when they pull away for air, they can't help but press their lips against other’s again. Then once more. And another.

His heart thuds happily underneath his skin. They do nothing but gaze at each other like fools, still smiling with the addition of blushing madly. Monty's happy to keep doing that (and the kissing bit too) forever and ever, but a nearby figure gets his attention.

Leave it to Richard bloody Peele to ruin a moment. He looks visibly shocked, from the ten metres away he is, and this time, he's probably, finally, got the message.

“Oh thank god, he’ll finally leave us alone now,” says Monty, hoping he's right.

Percy blinks. “What?” He turns to see Peele and when he turns back to Monty, his face is shuttered. “Oh.” He starts packing. “I've got to go, sorry, I need--” he jams his laptop into his bag, “--I have class.”

Monty's pretty sure he doesn't have class but he stands as Percy does, his mind blank with shock. “Wait, Percy--” he tries to grab Percy's hand but he holds himself away and shrugs on his bag.

He flaps a hand at him and Peele, who is still staring like a git. “I'm sure you can sort out whatever this is without me. Bye, Monty.”

He walks away, and Monty's left standing there, sun harsh on his skin. Percy walks away and Monty just stands there. It should be something he knows like air, but he's having trouble breathing because it's simple as truth, he should've known. Everything good walks away from him.

//

His texts have gone unanswered, calls ignored, but Monty somehow thinks Percy might be there on Tuesday anyway. Percy isn’t there. For the first hour, Monty desperately hopes. But the second hour passes and the third hour’s almost up when the barista pointedly sweeps by Monty’s table. Fine. If Percy won’t turn up, then Monty will. He crosses the lawn and storms into the residential block, steaming as he waits for the elevator to take him up. What is Percy’s problem, anyway? It was just a kiss. Just a stupid kiss that Monty should not have indulged himself in.

“Ground floor,” chimes the elevator. Monty steps in.

He’s never read the signs so wrong before. Of course Percy wouldn’t want him and his messy life. Percy is perfect and always supportive of Monty, if Monty were any good, but he isn’t, he clearly isn’t.

“Level one.”

Ugh, he’s circled round to self-hatred again. He remembers he was angry. Percy and his inability to communicate and his great ability to lead Monty on and on. Who does that? Who is so unaware--

“Level two.”

Maybe Percy’s not… bi? Gay? The thought never occurred to him before, having someone out of reach, not even playing the same game. But it can’t be, right? He remembers Percy’s careful blankness when Richard Peele put a hand on Monty’s shoulder. His head hurts.

“Level three.”

The hall is the same as ever. No one recognises Monty without Percy and he feels adrift as he reaches the room at the end of the hall. He knocks before he can talk himself out of it, pulling up his anger again.

A meek-looking boy opens the door, rectangle frames sliding down his nose. “Yes?”

Monty stands tall. “Is Percy there? I need to talk to him.”

Percy’s roommate -- Dante, Monty remembers -- pushes his glasses up and glances back. “N-no… He’s not here?” Clearly taking direction from Percy.

“I know he’s here, Dante. I want to talk to him.” Monty hopes he sounds stern and authoritative.

“He’s got a headach-- ache-- He’s not feeling well. Bye now.” He moves the door.

“Percy!” Monty yells into the wedge of door still open, “I know you’re there!” Dante’s trying to close the door shut on him, so Monty grabs the edge of the door, forcing it open. It’s probably not his best first impression. “Let me in, goddammit. I just want to talk.”

Then, Percy is there. He yanks the door open and Monty almost falls through with the force of it. Dante, having been vetoed out of the game of tug-a-war with a door sighs in relief. Monty hears the bathroom door shut before the shower runs. Good; he wants this conversation between him and Percy only.

“What do you want, Monty?” Percy asks tiredly.

In that moment, Monty wants to hold him. Dark circles hang heavy under his eyes and the glow of his skin is chalked over, leaving him looking tired. A hand at the door holds him up, and Monty realises his posture sags weakly. Also, in addition to all this, he is looking very annoyed.

“Percy, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Percy snaps. “Why are you here?”

“I… I wanted to apologise.” It's what he's supposed to say. “For Thursday.”

Percy just stares at him, face impassive. “Is that all?”

“Jesus, Percy, I don't know. Okay? I don't know what you want me to be sorry for,” Monty scrubs a hand through his hair, “If I read the signs wrong and you didn't--” _want me_ \-- “want to touch me, then I'm sorry. You can tell me I was being stupid and I'll be sorry for it.”

“I did.” He drops his eyes.

“What?”

“I did want you to touch me. It was-- nice.” Percy frowns at the floor. “It was more than nice but it didn't seem as nice as you wanted it to be with that other guy.”

What? He feels like a parrot, an idiot missing the big picture. “What?” he asks again.

“You only did what you did on Thursday to make him jealous. And it wasn't fair, Monty, it was a total dick move.” Percy's grip on the door slides and he blows out a rough breath. “And now you're here at my room, dragging confessions out of me because you don't have enough gall to confront that in yourself.”

He got it wrong, how could he do this to Percy? He was right he was right he was right. Everyone leaves him in the end. But a tiny voice at the back of his mind tells him, maybe not. Maybe not this time.

“It wasn't that, Percy, I promise. I hate Richard Peele, don't neglect that, but what we had on Thursday had nothing to do with him. Nothing.” He needed to say something, he had to keep talking or else Percy would leave. “I wanted to kiss you. It was more than nice for me, too, and I'm still sorry. I'm sorry that I put you through all this,” he softly nods at Percy, “You don't need to hide from me, you know.”

Monty waits for the moment where the clouds part and the sun comes out again, but all he gets is the grim set of Percy's jaw and sharp words.

“You think I'm like this because of you?”

“...Yes?” What part is he missing? “I get it, Percy, I was just as ruined, it's ok--”

“Do you realise not everything is about you?”

“I know that, it's just that you look so--” he gestures at Percy's pallid form.

He regrets it instantly.

“Goodbye, Monty. Don't call me.”

And then the door is shut in his face and he's left alone in the corridor.

//

He has time to mull it over. He still goes to the cafe, hoping Percy might come in one day. The conversation plays over and over again in his head and he can't see for the life of him where he went wrong. Maybe he should've called the kiss something better than nice, or maybe he should've sent him a text beforehand to let him know. Maybe he should've told Percy he was in love with him.

Having not found anything too irreparable in his recollection, Monty decides that the problem is him. Just him. His life is so messy, with his lack of a normal loving family and his tangle of dates and sexcapades. Percy probably doesn't want to get himself caught up in his emotional tornado.

 _Do you realise not everything is about you?_ echoes from Tuesday, but Monty doesn't know. What else could it be?

He shakes his head and bulldozes the readings into his mind. No Percy, he thinks, no kisses. No stupid confusing feelings. It goes like that for the next eternity (ten minutes) and then Percy’s sitting in front of him.

Of course, it's not that simple. Percy's sitting there. Came in and slid into the seat without Monty noticing, but he's sitting there. Here. With Monty.

Monty opens his mouth.

“Don't say anything,” says Percy. He's still a bit sharp, but he also looks nervous, staring down at his hands, fingers twisting against each other. “I want to explain.”

A pause. Then, “I'm sorry for being in a bad mood yesterday. It's something that happens semi-regularly, I guess. I have fits, sometimes. Not just the emotional kind. I mean physical fits.” He looks up at Monty. “That's because I have epilepsy.”

Monty's mind is blank. _Say something,_ he screams at himself. “Oh.”

Percy keeps looking at him, cautious and withheld. Like it's taking everything to be here.

“Um, I mean. That's okay. Is that-- does that happen often?”

“The moods or the fits?”

“Both.”

“Often enough.”

The pause is awkward, and they've never had an awkward pause before. What does he say?

“Does it hurt? The-- shaking?”

Not that, he definitely wishes he hadn't said that, because Percy's face closes up, becomes defensive.

“Why? It's not going to affect you.”

Monty's throat closes over. He's still in shock. “But it might, if I'm around you when you-- when it happens.”

Blankness wipes all cautiousness from Percy's expression. For a moment, he stares at Monty like he's busy keeping himself hidden. Then, a furl of tired anger pulls the corners of his mouth down, draws hurt into his eyes, the freckles no longer careless and joyful below them. Monty's mind screams at him to say something, say something better, but he's resigned to it when he hears Percy get up to leave him for the third time in a week.

“You don't get it, do you?” Monty doesn't know what to say, so he stares up silently at Percy, tall as the day he sat down at their table for the first time. Percy shakes his head, like he can't believe it. “I can't do this, Monty, not with you.”

He leaves.

//

Monty is an idiot. He hates it when people treat him like an injured thing, like they're gently leading around a leashed pet, helpless and benign, just because he has one ear and a couple of scars. He's an idiot, so he spends most of his time watching lectures on epilepsy and reading 101 articles, which is a little silly because he barely manages to finish his essay in time. But it’s not stupid at all. Not for Percy, who thinks he needs to keep his pain secret from Monty. And yeah, sometimes Monty feels he was right in doing that, but most times Monty wants to be there for Percy.

Percy, who he hasn't seen since that disastrous Tuesday afternoon a week ago. The old Monty would've barged in and made his case, take it or leave it. Now, with Percy in his life (or out of it), he waits and is patient. He hates it but that's what he'll do, because he's met Percy and he needs to do this.

He’s at the submission box, finding something to staple his print-out together. Scipio lives in the same past he teaches, and would rather his students take the long way around and submit a printed copy of their final essay. He’s sighing forlornly at his loose sheets, debating the merits of just submitting it in its plastic sleeve (NO PLASTIC SLEEVES, the essay rubric had said) when a polished Thomas Harding crops up.

“Did I save you five marks or what?” He holds out a stapler to Monty. Thomas is a shameless flirt, earnest in how terrible his lines are, but that’s why Monty doesn't mind him.

Monty takes the proffered stapler. “My saviour.” He staples the thing and vindictively shoves the essay into the submissions slot. It’s not as satisfying as he had hoped. “I’m all out of favours to return, unfortunately.”

“That’s okay, I’ll make do for your company.” Thomas submits his essay, already neatly stapled. “There’s a party happening tonight to celebrate the end of suffering and whatnot. You should come.”

The smile Thomas gives him is a hint fun and a great deal flirtatious. Monty considers it. It’s a better vice than drinking himself into a stupor. Also better than waiting around for Percy to not hate him, he supposes. He smiles back.

A few artful tousles through his hair and a couple of hours later, Monty meets up with Thomas and follows him to a rooftop. Glasses are clashing more than clinking, and the bass pumps from the ground to Monty's chest, and Monty thinks, _ah yes, quintessential dorm party_. And then, _dorm party. Dorm. Dormitory. Percy._

Obviously the jump from penultimate to ultimate leaped over the parts involving Percy living on campus, Percy being adored (who wouldn't?) by everyone living on campus and Percy being invited to campus residential parties. Like this one.

"I'll get you a drink, yeah?" Thomas says, looking at another one of their classmates more than he is at Monty. Monty nods numbly, not caring about anything else but Percy halfway across the rooftop.

Some students have somehow managed to drag a few couches up to the rooftop, arranging them around tables and aimed at what passes for the campus skyline. Percy's squeezed between two people at one of the table couch arrangements, looking without a care in the world in a grey t-shirt and jeans. Someone near him is doing a robotic rendition of a piano concerto, so this must be Percy's fellow orchestra mates.

He looks so… _warm_. Like he belongs and he's understood. Not by Monty who can barely hold a violin right or communicate clearer than a puddle of mud.

The boy seated on Percy's left leans into him, saying something that makes Percy smile shyly.

Damn this. Monty turns. Where are the goddamn drinks? He ambles around, hoping he's hidden by shadows and walls, and finally, he finds the table with the booze, hidden near the air conditioner exhaust unit, spewing out cool air. Monty thinks it's an all-round health and safety risk, being that close to exhaust fumes, but Monty also doesn't care and rummages through the table.

He's just going to take a bottle and go. No one at this party is going to miss him. He spotted Thomas cozying up to their classmate earlier, and Percy sure as hell isn't going to talk to Monty. Which only leaves one question: the bottle of whiskey or the bottle of red? The whiskey looks full but the seal is cracked. The red is sealed but the grapevine logo looks more cartoonish than tastefully illustrated. More fumes are coughed at him as the air conditioner sputters. Monty decides to value health and safety, and grabs the bottle of red.

"Stealing from your hosts, Monty?"

Monty almost drops his loot as he swirls around to see Percy, hands in pockets, slightly rumpled. Probably by that boy from earlier, Monty thinks bitterly.

But it's the first time they've talked and not argued (yet, probably) in a week so he shoves down all his stupid feelings and gestures magnanimously, bottle in hand. "Saving them from whatever godawful swill this is. Do you think it's from the ten-pound wine bin or the eight-pound?"

Percy almost smiles. Monty almost faints. "It definitely belongs in a bin somewhere."

"Yes, I'll make sure it returns to its rightful home straight away," he flaps a hand in goodbye, "I'll leave you to-- the party."

"Monty, wait."

Monty freezes.

"Do you…" Percy looks at the ground, and runs a hand through his hair, rumpling it further. He seems to have changed his mind about his question and sighs, all the fight going out of him. "Never mind."

Monty doesn't know what to say. He remembers the last time he spoke so brashly, but he's learned. He's still learning and he doesn't want Percy to leave.

"Can we talk?" Monty asks.

Percy gives him a small nod. A chorus of shrieks and laughter come up from the sofas and chairs.

"Somewhere private?" he adds.

"Sure," Percy starts walking and Monty follows.

His stomach fizzes and bubbles at the idea that Percy's leading him to his room again, but he follows Percy down the stairs and to the elevator, and then he remembers this isn't Percy's building. Percy pushes the down button for them and they do nothing except watch the letters and numbers change from floor to floor. _Communicate_ , he remembers.

So he says the first thing that comes to his mind. "I'm sorry."

Wrong, a buzzer sounds in his head as Percy's face remains impassive. "Don't be."

"No, really, I'm not-- I'm not sorry for you." Monty wants to tear his hair out. He's learning, but he needs to learn faster.

"You're doing a great job being sorry there," says Percy flatly.

"No, it's not that. I just--" Monty drags his free hand down his face. "I'm sorry I panicked and sat there saying nothing useful. I let you think I cared about-- that-- but I don't care. Not for me." God, he's saying the wrong things. He looks down at his feet. "I meant. I just want to be there for you."

He can't see what Percy's face looks like, but he's saved by the lift as it chimes before them. They both step in in silence and Percy presses the ground button. The doors are almost closed when a drunken couple stumbles in, their attempts at sobriety obviously failing with their touchy-feely giggles.

That's fine. It gives Monty more time to sort out what he said. Yes, of course he cares about Percy's epilepsy, but not for what it means to him. He doesn't want to have any walls between him and Percy, but he knows sometimes there are places where Monty can't reach him, just like Monty's single-side deafness will probably present a problem for them in the future, but Monty can't wait for that future and the tangle of trouble and happiness and Percy it might bring.

He remembers the sun on Percy's sleeping face, warm as his smile. He'd lose everything he has just to have that in his future again.

At level one, the lift lets the couple out and as soon as it closes, Monty needs Percy to understand this. He turns to Percy, who's still looking so far away, the rumpledness looking closer to a cold tiredness.

"I mean it," he says, pleading, "I want to be there for you. And I know it won't be easy, I know there's a lot I need to learn and just hang on for. But I want to do it. For you."

He's met by nothing but silence. The lift dings once more and lets them out. Monty wordlessly follows Percy out of the building along a footpath. He hasn't said a word since they were waiting at level five and Monty's too scared to look at his face when he catches up side-by-side with him, staring forward instead.

They pass a sign that says 'NO OPEN BOTTLES. FINES APPLY'. That, the bottle in his hand and Percy's stone cold silence means Monty has no choice but to break the law. He stops to wrestle out the cork and he hears Percy stop too, but the damn thing won't come loose and his fingers are clammy and it just _won't budge_.

Percy's hand on his is a sudden warmth as it wraps around the bottle. He stares at those hands, heart dumb and racing, as Percy smoothly pulls the cork free and takes a swig for himself. The line of his throat bobs.

"Thanks," he says, and passes the bottle back to Percy before resuming walking.

"It's all right," Monty mumbles. He follows and takes a drink as well, a sweet burn to accompany his blood churning from the touch of Percy's hands. He doesn't remember being so shaken by anyone before.

"I mean it. Thank you," says Percy, "For wanting to be there for me." He turns to look at Monty and it feels like the sun rising, impossibly, against the dark of night. "No one's ever wanted to do that for me before and I'm glad. I'm glad that you're here."

He feels impossibly sun-warm and he knows it's not from the drink. He takes a pull anyway and passes it back to Percy. "I'm glad, too." Wait, does that make sense, or does he sound like an arsehole? "Not for me-- as in, not glad for me being here. I'm just glad you'll have me."

He blushes at his poor phrasing. Percy grins and dawn breaks somewhere in the world. "You're terrible at communicating, aren't you?"

"No," Monty grumbles, still blushing. Percy gives him a look. "Fine. Yes. Maybe."

They keep walking like that, taking small sips as they pass the bottle back and forth, and they're back to normal but there's something more now. Percy makes wry commentary on his lack of communication skills before regaling him with a story from orchestra involving piano wires and lube. Monty is intrigued.

"Wait so you can do that with a piano? And it'll sound like a damp drum?"

Percy's grin turns lewd. "It sounded wet for sure. Fucking in A minor."

They break into laughter, the only noises besides insects and distant traffic to fill the night air. Monty gently shoves Percy with his shoulder. "You are more vulgar than is fair, Percy Newton."

They're near the campus entrance now and the bottle sloshes in Monty's hand, almost empty. Monty knows the nearby lamppost isn't lighting him in the most flattering way but he doesn't care for any of that, not with Percy. Percy's eyes are bright, his lips still wearing their laughter and Monty's not sure if the insects are buzzing louder or it's just the space between them, crackling with _almost_ something.

Percy wraps a hand around Monty's on the bottle and takes a long draw from it, pulling Monty along for the ride, head tilting back. He brings the bottle back down between them and everything else is a blur, Percy in hyper focus, mouth wet and freckles laid over flushed cheeks. His hand is still locked around Monty's.

He leans in -- or down -- height difference, Monty numbly thinks -- and they're so close, _so close_ for an eternal moment before Percy closes the distance and presses his lips to Monty's.

It's hesitant and Monty waits a second too long because Percy starts to pull back. Monty refuses to let him leave again. He lets everything in him unravel as he brings his right hand to cup Percy's jaw and kisses him. Their lips move softly against each other, just like it had in the afternoon sun that day, except this time with more surety, more pressure. Percy's other hand settles at the small of Monty's back, their other hands still cramped uncomfortably around the bottle between them, but Monty doesn't care for any of it, only the warmth between them. Under fluorescent lighting of all things, with the night chill seeping through his clothes, everything in Monty thaws and frees itself with each slide of Percy's lips across his.

Percy pulls back for air, eyes still closed. Monty is not ready to let go, though, so he sucks on Percy's bottom lip, dragging his tongue across. He adds some teeth, too, gently grazing at the warm plushness and the glass of the bottle hums with Percy's groan.

"Hey! You two!"

They pull apart to see a campus security guard alighting his golf-cart security-mobil advancing toward them. "No open bottles!" the man yells.

Monty is reminded of FINES APPLY in stern white print and thinks now is the perfect opportunity to get rid of this blasted bottle between them. He promptly sets in on the floor, grabs Percy's hand, and runs.

Percy's a little slow to start but the guard calls after them and they both bolt, Monty leading the way until they're far from campus and a street away from his flat.

His hands are on his knees as he catches his breath. Percy's not winded as he is, damn his long legs, he's still able to talk, even.

"Do you think he recycled it?" says Percy.

"Two dollar bin?" pants Monty.

Percy does that guffaw of his again and Monty can't help but press a kiss to Percy's jaw. He takes Percy's hand again and pulls, walking them the half block to his building.

The building is not exactly run down, but it is plain. The moon is the only thing that lights the stoop, which, Monty is pleased to find, puts him at the same height as Percy as Monty ascends it two steps up and turns to face him. They're still holding hands, smiling at each other.

"Well, this is me," Monty shrugs at the entrance.

"I see." The hand Monty isn't holding comes up to rest at his chin pensively, like he's considering something. "I think you're forgetting that you owe me something."

Monty grins and leans in to press a soft kiss to his mouth, which Percy returns once, twice, before pulling away, mischief in his eyes.

"I remember you still have my pen," he says, nonchalant, "And you owe it back to me with interest."

"Hmm," Monty kisses him again, because he can. "I think we can settle our debts."

He leads Monty into the building, climbing up the stairs to his second floor flat. It takes longer than usual because after every flight, Percy shoves Monty against a wall and snogs him senseless. That's also why it takes them so long to unlock the front door.

They kick off their shoes, Percy laughing as Monty's hits the kitchenette cabinet in his hurry. Monty's glad he lives in a studio shoe-box -- they'll have less walls to navigate in their blind lust. But it doesn't help them much, Monty soon finding himself shoved against his wardrobe next to his bed. His hands are hot on Percy's waist as he leans in to suck a bruise into his neck, worrying a mark into his collarbone. He moves down for more to skin to mark but he's rudely blocked by the fabric of his t-shirt. He roughly rucks up the offending cloth, brushing his thumbs over Percy's nipples as he does so, to which he receives a bitten off gasp.

Interesting. He leans down and drags a tongue over his right nipple. Percy lets out a breathy moan, so Monty closes his mouth around it and sucks. Percy cries out, a hand going to Monty's hair, Monty shivering as he drags his nails against Monty's scalp.

He holds Percy's waist and repeats the motion on his left nipple as his thumb rubs at the right. He scrapes a nail and Percy gasps his name before pulling off of Monty's hair and pulling off his shirt. Monty follows suit with his own shirt, sparing a brief moment for his hair, made briefer when Percy grips him by the waist and flips them before descending onto Monty's mouth. He swipes his thumbs over Monty's nipples and Monty arches into it, grabbing Percy's shoulders, the feeling of _skin on skin_ driving him mad. He's gone for it, needs more if it.

"More," he gasps when Percy pulls away, lips shiny with their spit. Monty reaches down around the front of Percy's fly and presses into him. Percy grinds into the palm of his hand, and they both groan at the sensation.

Monty works the fly of Percy's jeans open and pushes a hand into his pants. He's pleased to find that Percy's half hard and gives him a generous pull before shoving his pants and jeans all the way down. He licks his palm and takes Percy's length into his hand again, sliding his thumb over the head as he twists up. Percy rewards him with a groan, his hips arching into the movement, Monty leaning forward to worry a mark between his neck and shoulder.

"Pants _off_ , Monty," Percy's hands are incoherent at his shoulders, like he's as mad for it as Monty is. " _Now_." Monty doesn't stop working Percy's cock in his hand, loving the sharp gasps it tears from Percy.

Percy, having exhausted his patience, pushes Monty away, makes quick work of Monty's fly and jeans, and guides Monty to the edge of the bed before dropping to his knees. Monty's mouth goes dry when Percy wraps a hand around him, jerking him once, twice, and then he's-- oh god, Monty can't _think_ because now he's--

His head bobs down to meet his fist at the base of Monty's cock, and Monty can't believe it, sitting at the edge of his bed with his hands a deathly grip on the sheets, getting a blowjob from the love of his life.

Percy pulls up to drag a tongue across the slit before licking down to the base and pressing a dirty kiss above his balls, his hand working at where his mouth isn't. A solid drag of his tongue back up returns his mouth to the head, which Percy seals his mouth around and sucks and sucks like he's all the time of day.

Eighteen years living as peerage leaves Monty with little self-control or patience and he drags Percy off, pulling him above Monty onto the bed. Monty fumbles for the lube and condoms in his bedside drawer and hands them to Percy. Percy settles between Monty's legs, eyes aflame.

He slicks a finger and traces Monty's hole with it. Monty whimpers with the sensation, and Percy obliges him by pushing in. He's gentle with his thrusts and the discomfort soon subsides, the promise of pleasure taking place.

“Fuck, Monty.”

Monty looks down between his legs to see Percy’s face rapt with desire as he slides into Monty. Another finger slides in, and when Percy crooks his fingers just so, a half-yelp escapes Monty's throat.

A smirk graces Percy's features and he pulls his fingers out, Monty holding in a whine.

“You don't have to hold back, you know,” says Percy, rolling on a condom. Monty swallows. “Be as loud as you want. I want to hear you.”

Monty mutely nods before breathing out a quiet _yes_ when Percy pushes his knees out and up. He holds his legs like that, toes pointed up, and whines a marginally louder _yes_ when Percy rubs his cock at Monty's entrance.

“Do you want it?” asks Percy, the bloody audacity to even ask, “Do you want me?”

He pushes in just past the ring, not moving further. The stretch around Percy's cock the beginning of more to come, and Monty wants it, he wants more of him, all of him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Monty moans.

Percy pushes in another inch, then another, Monty wantonly moaning _yes_ all the way. When he's down to the hilt, he doesn't stop moving, pulling back and slamming in, and Monty's mad for it, the sound of Percy's groans driving wordless cries from his own mouth.

He should be uncomfortable, his knees at his shoulders, Percy’s weight against his thighs, his chest, as he drives into Monty over and over. But he can't bring himself to care, little punched out moans escaping into the scant air between them, Percy groaning filth into his ear as he drops onto his forearms and tongues the shell of his ear.

“Feel so good around me, Monty, fuck--” He drives in for emphasis and Monty yells, “Can't believe I have you, so lovely around my cock, so fucking beautiful.”

“Percy,” Monty gasps. He needs to kiss him _right now_ otherwise he'll die, “Percy--”

That's as eloquent as he gets when he's getting fucked within an inch of his life, the headboard banging against the wall. Thank fuck his bed isn't against the neighbour's wall, but Monty wouldn't care anyway, not with Percy.

He wraps a hand around Percy’s neck, bringing his mouth to Monty’s and they kiss, wet and messy, tongues sliding as they best can. Monty moans into it when Percy's next thrust in hits him just right. Percy gets the message and moves his arms to curve around Monty’s knees. He leans his weight into him, pounds into Monty, filling the room with the slap of his balls on Monty's arse, mouths still sliding slick.

Monty can't take it, he's wild for it. He wrenches his knees to his chest, holding himself open, when Percy finally pulls away from his mouth, rearing up to drive in deeper still.

“Percy, please,” oh fuck, oh fuck, “Please, need more. Need-- hnnf--” a particularly hard thrust “--Yes! Yes, just like that Percy, please, _please_.”

“So good for me, Monty, so beautiful. Fuck, look at you.” Percy leans down and bites at his shoulder before laving at his jaw. “Can't believe you want me this bad, can't believe you want this.”

 _Of course I fucking do, you idio_ t, Monty wants to say but he's too gone. His grip on his knees weaken, so he wraps his legs around Percy, heels digging into the meat of his arse. Monty tries to convey his thoughts via kiss, locking Percy to his mouth with an arm as he licks and sucks and bites at his lips.

Percy still drills into his body, unrelenting, and he gives the same for Monty's mouth, tongue licking along Monty's bottom lip and thrusting wetly into his mouth. When he pulls away, a bead of sweat drops away from his temple. It's quite the picture, Percy's skin shiny with sweat from giving Monty the fucking of his lifetime. His cheeks are as flushed as his mouth, bitten sweet and red, parted into a slight O as he gasps and pants with every meeting of their hips.

His eyes look half lucid, lost to the rhythm of their bodies. Monty feels the same, his arse clenching and body rolling to meet Percy. He reaches a hand down to tug at his cock and moans with abandon.

“Yes,” pants Percy, propping up on his hands, giving Monty more room to properly jack himself. “Yes--” he groans as Monty tightens around him for good measure “--fuck, Monty. Fuck--”

Monty moans in agreement as Percy's thrusts grow wild, slapping against him faster. He fists his cock roughly, nothing but pure pleasure on his mind.

Percy groans and leans his weight onto one arm, the other hand moving into Monty's hair, his brow, his cheek. Monty turns his head and presses a kiss to Percy's thumb at the corner of his mouth. _I'm here,_ he wants it to say, _I'm here for you_. But he doesn't say any of that and wraps his mouth around Percy's thumb instead, flicking his tongue at it.

“Monty--”

And Percy's gone, hips jerking his release into Monty, groaning his name like a prayer over and over, as Monty mouths at his thumb.

“Monty, so good for me, love you with me, here with me,” he's still pumping into Monty, “Come for me, Monty. I want to feel you come around me.”

Monty whines at that, his nerves scraped raw as Percy continues to drag his cock over Monty's prostate. He pulls at his own prick, slippery with pre-come. Percy’s inside him, he's around him, and the tangle of him and Percy, wetly sliding against each other, pushes Monty over the edge.

“ _Percy_ ,” he gasps, over and over.

Come hits his stomach and chest, and a few tugs later, he's _still_ coming. Monty doesn't think he's had pleasure hit him so hard. He pulls out the last of it with a few more twists at his cock, Percy still lazily pushing into his arse.

The hand at his cheek moves into his hair, fingers gently combing through the strands. He's finally stopped moving, and the look Percy gives him, still breathing harshly-- Monty knows he was right in being in love with him.

“C’mere,” he tugs at Percy's shoulder.

Percy gently pulls out and scoots up -- not very far, he's very tall -- to meet Monty's mouth, not caring about the come smearing all over his chest. The kiss is slow and sweet, and when Percy collapses next to him, Monty can't help raining kisses across Percy's shoulder, his chest.

Percy hums contentedly above him, his chest slowing with each press of Monty's lips. He wraps an arm around Monty's chest, holding them together. It's not long before the come and sweat dries uncomfortably between their bodies, but that doesn't matter, because it's not long when they both fall asleep, Monty’s ear against the slow thud of Percy's heart.

//

"As requested," says Percy, sliding into his seat.

After a lazy bout of morning sex, bodies slow and aching as they ground into each other, they dragged themselves out of bed (for Monty to suck Percy off in the shower) and then dragged themselves to the café. Percy is looking more well-fucked than any man ought to be, his hair still wild and marks shamelessly dotted along his collarbone where his collar slips. Monty's heart swells. At the sight of Percy, _and_ the contents of Percy's hands.

"You've corrupted me," he drags the plate toward him, taking a knife to the cupcake to split it in half. He slides Percy his half and licks at the frosting on top.

Heat curls at his stomach as Percy's eyes drop to his mouth. "I've turned you to the side of the light. Next stop, mint choc ice cream."

"Never. I'd rather face the wrath of your roommate than eat toothpaste ice cream."

Percy snorts. "Would you like it if you ate it off my body?"

He bites at his cupcake innocently as Monty chokes on his own. He flicks a crumb at Percy. "Not even then," he coughs out, face red.

"I think I'd enjoy eating it off of yours." The picture of innocence.

" _Percy_ ," Monty flicks a pointed glance around them, "We're in _public_."

"Yes, and?"

"You're a nightmare," he grumbles into his cupcake. The things Percy does to him. And will do to him, Monty hopes, he can't wait.

They consume their cake and caffeine. Monty's alarmingly turned on with their discussion of nefarious food acts and they leave the café, probably to the relief of every other patron. Or dismay. Percy does have quite the tongue.

Outside, the sun's just beginning to dip low in the sky, and Percy's hand finds Monty's, warm and sure. They're halfway to Monty's place now, walking in comfortable silence. The sky is streaked in pink and orange, a backdrop to Percy in hues of golden brown. It feels like they're the only ones as bright as the sky, the buildings and roads around them a greyscale of concrete cityscape.

The two of them against the world, Monty thinks, knowing it won't be that easy, but it will be enough. And enough will be worth fighting for. So when he gets to the front stoop, the street blessedly empty and quiet, and when Percy smiles softly at him like it's the simplest thing in the world, Monty can't help but lean in and kiss him. They kiss, slow as the setting sun, and he feels as if a whole garden blooms awake inside him.

They part, breaths puffing softly as they lean their foreheads together, hands joined. A moment passes and they press their lips together again, and again, the sun sinking lower behind them. Monty's heart feels full in his chest, and with every breath, he does everything to show Percy it is his. As sure as the sun sets and rises, they will have each other.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Yes, there's a deez nuts joke here. Don't deny that Felicity is a meme queen.  
> 2\. The piece that Percy plays is Elena Kats Chernin's 'Peggy's Minute Rag', whose more popular piece is 'Russian Rag'. But Peggy's rag is literally a minute long and still wonderful. Listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/KUljb3hyGAA).  
> 3\. Please, let me know what you think! Drop them in the comments or over on [tumblr](http://cafexuada.tumblr.com/).


End file.
